Like Father, Like Son
by Ashtrees
Summary: A Cabin Pressure sick!fic. Martin's father died of pneumonia and now Martin has developed it too. His family and the MJN crew come to his rescue.
1. Chapter 1

_I don't own Cabin Pressure_

Chapter One

It was a bright, crisp day in early December and Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, CEO of MJN Air, was almost feeling optimistic that her tiny business might actually struggle through into the New Year.

She only ever allowed herself to experience almost-optimism over full-on-optimism because: one) her son Arthur had enough cheerful hopefulness to make the Care Bears look pessimistic and there was only so much room on board Gerti for that kind of thing; and two) things would inevitability take a nose-dive if she did. Which was an actual possibility with the ancient plane.

But, at least for today, all that they had booked was a cargo flight to Ireland. Very simple and very little opportunity for anything to go wrong. Martin would be thankful for that.

For the past two weeks the Captain had been suffering from a prolonged bout of flu, and while it was not so severe that Martin was confined to his bed, it had been causing him some misery.

Symptoms aside, the main cause of his misery was First Officer Douglas Richardson.

Douglas' continuous teasing and complaining that Martin was spreading his germs all over the flight deck had done little to improve Martin's mood. But, the worry that both her pilots would succumb to the virus was a very serious one for Carolyn. Fortunately, Douglas, for all of his whining, seemed to have avoided the clutches of the flu virus, leaving Martin to fight it off solo.

Even before she had opened the Porta Cabin door, Carolyn could hear Martin coughing from inside. She winced at the sound. The coughing fit was long-drawn out, sounding raw and dry, as if Martin had just inhaled a bag of saw dust was now hacking it back up.

It made Carolyn recall what Douglas had reported to her two days ago: that all through the night, Douglas could hear the Captain through the thin diving wall of their hotel rooms, coughing painfully and _wheezing_.

Douglas had sounded worried.

Carolyn shook her head and _breezed_ into the Porta Cabin. She was the CEO of MJN, renter of the Porta Cabin - so, breezing was the only way that she should enter her Porta Cabin.

She breezed in with a hand held over her eyes.

"Good morning, good morning, my cheerful deifiers of gravity and the people who told you that it would be better for all mankind if you _did not_ learn how to fly!" she cried, hand still across her eyes. "Now, I know that today is the day that I look around this damp box of an office and find all my boys nicely assembled on time and eagerly awaiting orders. No illegal schemes on the horizon and no turning up late having been distracted by trying to teach the airfield cat how to fetch sticks! And -" Carolyn removed her hand with flourish, her face dropping into an expression of mock shock and disappointment. "Oh! It's just you, Martin. Again."

"Morning, Carolyn," Martin mumbled, hiding his face behind his hand. "I've finished the flight plan. Arthur, is playing with Air Field -"

"Who?"

"The cat. George said Arthur could name him. So, it's Air Field. And Douglas will show up. I expect."

Carolyn almost regretted asking about the cat. Every word Martin spoke sounded forced and only came out of his mouth with a huge amount of effort on his part. He suddenly descended into another fit of coughing. Carolyn winced again. She could see that Martin's eyes were screwed up in pain, as every cough wracked his body. After he had finished he began to massage his chest.

"Martin, you don't look fit to fly," Carolyn stated flatly. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

Martin shook his head.

"But, I'll be fine once I've woken up a bit," he croaked. If there was any reassurance to be taken from his words, then the effect was lost on Carolyn when he decided to lean forward on the desk, resting his head on his arms.

"No, you're not fine," Carolyn insisted. "Look, don't worry about this trip, Martin. Instead, you can go to the doctors, see if they can give you anything. You look and sound as if you've got a chest infection."

The Porta Cabin door flew open, slamming against the wall, and creating yet another hole in the cheap plaster. Martin flinched.

"Time for me to make my entrance," Douglas crowed, to no one in particular. He checked his wrist watch. "With a tidy fifty-seconds before being officially late."

Arthur bounded in after Douglas, before leaping into one of the free swivel chairs, spinning around in it. He gave a concerned look at Martin as he span around.

"Being fifty seconds early is not on time!" Carolyn snapped.

Douglas raised an eyebrow. "You do understand my reason for looking confused, right? Anyway, don't fuss! I was looking for something."

"Yeah," said Arthur, rotating in the opposite direction . "He's brought his old - what was it? Stego-scope? Stegosaurus?"

"Stethoscope, Arthur," Douglas corrected. "And here it is!" He drew the instrument out of his pocket with all of the flourish of a magician producing a white rabbit. "I thought it might be useful in proving in a point to the Captain."

Martin still had his head on the table. He eyed Douglas and the stethoscope disdainfully, before turning his face away.

"I've already agreed to go to the doctors," he muttered.

"Oh, don't be a spoil-sport! This is much more fun! And it took a long time to dig the old girl out this morning."

Douglas caught hold of the arm on Arthur's chair, bringing his gyrating to a sudden halt. "Shift, Arthur. The doctor needs a chair."

Arthur was only too happy to give his seat up to watch Douglas practising yet another one of his talents. The man seemed to have an inexhaustible skill set in Arthur's eyes, and he could only hope to witness most of them before they eventually parted ways for one reason or another. He was keeping a secret record of them, and so far doctoring skills had not yet come up.

Douglas wriggled in the earpieces until they were comfortably in.

"Douglas, why on earth do you still have that thing?" Carolyn asked. "You were only a medical student. Surely you had to hand it back in when you - sorry, no. It's you. Sorry, stupid question."

"Thank you," said Douglas. He held up the chest piece of the stethoscope. "Come on, Martin."

"No." Martin tried to push his swivel chair away from Douglas, but his chair barely moved, turning slightly to the right.

Carolyn was not impressed. "Surely, Martin, you must be the only qualified pilot who can not drive a swivel chair." She took hold of the back of his chair and manoeuvred him back towards Douglas, ignoring his complaints. "Don't be so childish."

Giving up any hope of escape, Martin lent forward on the desk again, trying to ignore everyone. Douglas took this as a consent to go ahead and moved the chest piece across Martin's back.

"Interesting," he said. "Honestly, Martin, any one would think that you've got a lung full of Rice Krispies in there."

Arthur looked up. "Before or after the milk's been poured on them?" he asked.

"Defiantly after," said Douglas. He pulled out the earpieces. "Have a listen."

Arthur was about to take them when Martin broke his silence.

"No, hang on, they're my lungs! Not a source of entertainment!"

Douglas fought to keep his face straight. "Do you want a listen first?"

Martin held his gaze for about five seconds before, "Please."

He held in the earpieces while Douglas stretched the tube as far as it would go over Martin's back.

"You're right. Rice Krispies with milk," said Martin, screwing his face up in disgust.

"Which is why you should see a doctor," instructed Douglas, wrapping up his stethoscope after everyone had had a listen. "It could be something serious."

"I've already told him that!" said Carolyn. She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Anyway, enough of this Role-Playing! Douglas, go do the walk-around. Arthur, just get on board. Martin, do you need a lift to the doctors?"

"No, I'm fine," he replied, pressing the heel of hands into his eyes. "I'll probably won't be able to book an appointment for today, anyway."

"Well, you can go home and stay there until you do." Carolyn clapped her hands together. "Now, then everyone - be gone!"

Oooo

Carolyn did not hear anything from Martin until the next day in the middle of the afternoon. It was not good news.

"I've got atypical pneumonia, or something," Martin wheezed down the phone.

"Pneumonia!" Carolyn echoed, appalled. "Martin, I didn't realise that you were that sick!"

"No, I'm fine." There was a slight pause as Martin tried to hold off another round of coughing. "I have antibiotics. And I really don't feel all that bad."

"That doesn't make it okay!"

"I'm sorry, Carolyn. The doctor said that - I feel fine to work, actually."

Carolyn could not help but smile slightly. Of course, Martin would insist that he was fit to fly.

"How long did he say that you should have off?" she pressed.

Martin hesitated again. "However, longs it takes to get better. He wasn't all that specific. I'm sorry, Carolyn. Really, I am," he added.

"No, it's not your fault," Carolyn interrupted, trying to stem the flow of apologies. "You just take all the time that you need. I'll think of someway for us to manage here. But, what about you? Is someone going to look after you?"

There was yet another pause.

"Martin?"

"I can cope!"

Carolyn sighed. "I drop round later on, make sure that -"

"You don't have to."

"I said that I will, so I will. Now, you get some rest and I will see you at seven o'clock sharp."

She put down the phone with a sharp click, and ran a hand through her hair.

Pneumonia was serious whether it was typical or atypical, whatever type Martin had said it was. Someone was going to have to keep an eye on him.

Not only that, but Martin could be off sick for weeks. Douglas could manage the shorter trips on his own, but what about the longer ones?

As if in answer to her prayers, the phone began to ring again, displaying Herc Shipwright's number.

"Hello, Carolyn," he said, sounding positively pleased with himself. "I finally managed to book some time off starting from today. So, we can finally spend some quality time together."

"Yes, we can," Carolyn purred. "But, not in the way that you're thinking. How do you fancy spending some non-quality time with me whilst showing off your piloting skills and bossing Douglas around?"

"Hmm, why not? Sounds rather fun.""Good," Carolyn grinned.

That was one problem solved at least.

_Thank you for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

_I don__'__t own Cabin Pressure_

Chapter Two

Martin was dutifully doing his best to fulfil his promise to Carolyn - he was at home, in bed and was trying to rest. But, his mind still reeling at the doctor's diagnosis of atypical pneumonia.

"Also known as walking pneumonia," his doctor had said, scribbling out a prescription for antibiotics. "You've probably had for it for weeks and not realised it. But, no more of that. You go home to bed and stay there for as long as you can. You don't want to make this any worse than it already is."

Martin chewed on his thumb knuckle irritably. It would be pneumonia. With his luck it would not have been anything else.

He pulled the duvet over his shoulders and closed his eyes, trying to switch his mind off. Now that he had been told it was pneumonia, probably of the bacterial variety, he was suddenly feeling the full weight of the symptoms: headache, stomach ache, joint ache and probably every other kind of ache too.

And heart ache.

Eight years ago his father had died of pneumonia.

But, that had been _serious_ pneumonia. Viral and typical, casing a sudden high fever and in the end ventilatory failure.

That would not happen to him. It could not happen to him.

Surely, my not even my luck is that bad, Martin thought and hoped.

He wondered if he should ring his family. They would want to know and the doctor had advised him to ask for some help, rather than trying to take care of himself.

At that point, Martin had told a little white lie, saying that of course he would ask for help and, more importantly, receive it.

But, truthfully, Martin had little intention of worrying his family, especially his mother. The thought of being looked after by either Simon or Catlin was enough to put him off anyway.

Besides, after a couple of days in bed and with the antibiotics kicking in, he would soon be back on his feet.

How would he tell them, anyway? Was it the kind of conversation that required some sort of preamble, or should he just say, "Hello, I've got pneumonia"?

Maybe he was only worrying about it because he was English.

Martin suddenly felt truly exhausted and was beginning to think that he should not have bothered going to the doctors at all. It was a case of mind over matter for him. While he had been kept busy and working, there was no time to feel poorly, but now he felt truly sick and worried about everything - how MJN would cope without him, if he should contact his family, and how _he_ was going to cope without being able to go out in the van for at least two weeks. It was his only source of income.

He had a couple of jobs booked in for tomorrow. He should phone his clients and ask to rearrange the dates or allow them to cancel, but he was in no mood to play phone tag right now.

Instead, Martin allowed himself to drift into an uneasy sleep and hoped that somehow all of his troubles would sort themselves out by the time he woke up.

Oooo

Being ill and living in an attic room at the very top of shared house, created a long list of inconveniences for Martin, Carolyn discovered.

As promised she had arrived at Parkside Terrace at exactly seven o'clock, and with Douglas and Arthur, who had both insisted on visiting the ailing captain with her.

She rang the bell and after a long wait, impatiently pushed it again.

"Give him a chance, Carolyn," said Douglas. "He has to come down all those stairs, remember? And that's if he's heard the bell."

Carolyn huffed loudly. He was right, of course, not that she wanted to admit that. She also felt a bit guilty too. If Martin had been in bed, like _she_ had told him to be, he was now being dragged out of bed because of her.

"Maybe Douglas is right and Skip hasn't heard the bell," said Arthur. "Should I shout?"

"No, thank you -"

"Skipper!" Arthur roared up towards the roof. "Skipper!"

Martin opened the door, looking pale, sleepy and confused.

"Why are you shouting, Arthur?" he asked, in a raspy voice.

"In case you hadn't hear the bell, Skip."

"But, I had heard it. That's why I have a doorbell over just a doorknocker. Because if it rings, I will hear it and had heard it, in fact."

Douglas pushed past Martin into the living room. "Somebody is feeling grouchy," he said.

"Hmm," Martin grunted, falling onto the sofa. "I wasn't expecting everyone to come."

Carolyn shrugged. "I did say that, but they insisted."

"Yeah, we wanted to see your house, Martin!" cried Arthur, jumping onto the sofa next to Martin.

"You weren't actually supposed to tell him that, Arthur," said Douglas, not sounding in the least bit embarrassed. "Anyway, how are you, Martin?"

"I'm fine," Martin croaked. He blew his nose loudly. "I have walking pneumonia."

"I see. And where is the pneumonia walking to?"

"Bed, I hope." Martin shivered, pulling his dressing gown tighter around himself.

"Yes, well, we'll get out of the way soon," said Carolyn, sitting down in the armchair. "Where are all the students?"

"Holiday," Martin said in a voice that barely reached above a whisper. Talking had become something of an effort.

That worried Carolyn a little. It meant that Martin was all on his own.

"I just wanted to let you know that Herc is happy to fill in for you, so you needn't worry about hurrying back to work."

"Good," said Martin, slumping against the arm of the sofa, closing his eyes.

"No, not good!" Douglas stood up, horrified. "You didn't tell me this!"

"No, I was saving it up so that Martin could witness your face at the same time as me. As a sort of cheering-up present from me." She quickly turned back to Martin before Douglas had another chance of protesting. "I'm more worried about you, Martin. You don't look well enough to be on your own and there's no chance of you going out in the van like this."

"You don't have to worry about me," said Martin, sitting up again.

"Well, have you talked to your family?"

"No," Martin sighed. "If my mom found out she would worry too much. I mean - well, my Dad, he died of pneumonia. So, if she found out…"

"I'm so sorry," Carolyn said.

Douglas murmured a similar sentiment, while Arthur looked slightly unhappy.

"At least let one of us do your shopping for you," Carolyn went on. "Save you going out in the cold and then you can pay us back when you're ready."

"Thank you. That would be -" Martin began, but was interrupted by an annoyingly loud ring tone going off.

_Ring, Ring, Banana Phone!_

_Ring, Ring, Banana Phone!_

_Ring, Ring, Banana Phone!_

"It's yours, Arthur," Carolyn sighed.

"Oh, yeah, you're right," Arthur agreed, pulling out his phone. "I'll just go outside to answer it."

He went out into the hall, closing the door behind him and accepted the call.

"Hello, Wendy!"

"Hello, Arthur," replied Martin's mother. "I don't want to be any trouble, but I know how much you love helping -"

"That's right, I do. Helping is what I love. You would be doing me a massive favour by allowing me to help you in any way that I can."

"I was just wondering if you would like to help with the next RNLI meeting on Saturday?"

"Yeah, great! Count me in!"

"Good," said Wendy, pausing for breath. "By the way, how is Martin? He really doesn't call me as often as he should. Not that I want to interfere with his life. I know he's busy."

Arthur felt his brain locking up. He looked back towards the closed door to living room and then back at the wall.

"Right, yes," he said, eventually.

"Sorry, what?"

"Now you must not panic when I say that Martin defiantly has _not_ got bad pneumonia!" Arthur blurted out. He did not like lying to people, but he did not want to be the one to worry Wendy either.

"He's got pneumonia!" Wendy cried, sounding shrill.

"Yes, but I just said that it's not the bad kind and you mustn't worry!"

"He's got bad pneumonia!"

"No!"

"What is bad pneumonia?"

"I don't know!" Arthur wailed. "But, he hasn't got it! It's strolling pneumonia, or-or trotting pneumonia? But, he's okay, really."

"Tell him that I'm coming over," said Wendy, hanging up.

"Okay," Arthur whispered, twisting his hands around his phone. He had a feeling that Martin would not be too pleased with him.

He walked cautiously back into the living room and found all eyes upon him. No body said anything and Arthur realised that he was the one who expected to say something, so he went for, "Dolphins are mammals."

"Yes, good. Thanks for that, Arthur," said Douglas, rolling his eyes. "We were actually more wondering why you were shouting and to whom."

Martin narrowed his eyes at the unfortunate steward. "We heard you shouting, "He's got bad pneumonia!" Who were you talking to, Arthur?"

"Someone who knows you," Arthur said lightly, flicking a finger against the shade on the table-lamp.

"And I know them?"

"Ye-es?"

"I know them quite well, do I? For a number of years?"

"Hmm."

"Most of my life?"

"Nearly all of it," Arthur admitted.

"This wouldn't happen to be a female person, who has a name like -"

"Alright, it was your Mom, Skip!" Arthur exploded. "Mrs. Skip, Crieff, Wendy! I told her! And she said she's coming straight over."

Martin's face visibly paled, even more so than it already was. He began to cough again, whilst breathing in shallow, fast and wheezy breaths.

"Martin, please!" said Douglas, trying to calm Martin down. "Having a panic attack now is not a good idea!"

Martin slumped back against the sofa, eyes closed, chest rising and falling a little bit too quickly.

"I'm really sorry, Skip," said Arthur, meekly.

Martin shook his head, eyes still closed.

"She was going to find out anyway," he panted. He suddenly stood up, looking a little bit wobbly. "I'm going back to bed. I'll see you all…whenever." He staggered off in the direction of the stairs and hoped that the house was not too messy for his mother's liking, because he could not bear the thought of her trying to clean it.

_Thank you for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

_I don__'__t own Cabin Pressure_

Chapter Three

Late that evening a rather battered, second-hand Ford Fiesta pulled up outside Parkside Terrace and a man and woman climbed out, feeling their way across the icy pavement.

The woman looked to be in her mid-sixties, with short grey hair and clutching a handbag. She barely spared a glance to the crumbling house in her front of her, and walked straight up to the front door.

The man, however, took his time in sauntering up the garden path, looking around with a slight air of disapproval. He was tall and stocky and had a moustache which made his face appear to be even wider than it actually was.

He paused for a moment by the white van on the drive, giving it an affectionate pat before joining his mother in the porch, who was fumbling around in her handbag.

Eventually, she produced a key with an air of triumph and inserted it into the door.

"You've been here before," Simon Crieff stated flatly.

"Of course, I have, dear. He has been living here for ten years now," Wendy replied, jiggling the key around the rusted lock. She frowned. "Martin said that this door was tricky."

"Let me have a go."

Simon moved his mother aside, before furiously rattling the key himself, without result.

"Not to worry, Momo," he grunted. "You probably just have to give it a bit of beef!"

He slammed his shoulder against the door, which obligingly swung open. Simon staggered into the dark hall.

"There, you see?" he grinned, patted his hands together. "Nothing to it!"

He looked around the hall with interest. He had seen places more horrible than this one. While the house was not completely squalid, it was a little worn and threadbare in places. Clean, probably thanks to Martin, but old.

Wendy closed the front door behind them with far more gentleness than it had been forced opened with.

"Martin's room is in the attic," she said, heading towards the stairs.

Simon followed after her. He was starting to feel a little bit apprehensive about the place. It was cold and felt so eerily empty and quiet. He supposed that the students had broken up for the Christmas holidays already.

The stairs narrowed towards the attic. Wendy knocked on the door and softly called Martin's name before going in. She suspected that her son would be asleep. He had always been one of those lucky people who could sleep heavily through his illnesses.

Simon was not so sensitive to his younger brother's temperament.

"Martin!" he bawled. "How are you, chap?"

Martin who _had_ been fast asleep, awoke with a start. He was feeling too drowsy and too poorly to disguise his disdain when he realised that Simon had come with his mother.

"Not you!" he groaned, his voice sounding strangely thick and gruff. "Go away."

He tried to hide under his duvet and hoped that he was dreaming, but Simon pulled them away.

"I can't leave you!" Simon cried. "Not while my little brother is seriously ill. But, never too ill for a hug, eh?"

"Yes, I am."

Wendy chose to ignored the sounds of her two sons arguing with another, and instead inspected Martin's room.

The attic was not as grim as Douglas would have Arthur believe. Thanks to Douglas' exaggeration Arthur had always imagined a draughty, mouldy bare-floored void with his revered captain shivering each night under a torn blanket in front of a dying candle.

But, in reality, the attic room's greatest curse was the condensation, producing a spotted patch of mould in the corner of the ceiling. It was also quite cold up there, despite having a radiator and an electric heater. It was always too hot in the summer. However, it was surprisingly spacious with enough room for a bed, wardrobe and a desk for Martin's old computer for him to manage Icarus Removals; and it had a tiny bathroom with a shower, attached to it.

There was a sudden yell as Simon lifted Martin out of bed and pulled him into a tight hug. Wendy sighed. She knew that Martin hated being lifted up like that.

"I feel nauseous," Martin whimpered. His face had turned green.

"Simon, maybe you should put him down," Wendy ventured.

But, Simon apparently did not hear either of them. He had ritual of lifting Martin up and spinning him around every time they met and he was certainly going to complete it.

"He's flying!" Simon sang, swinging Martin around.

Martin, of course, was horribly sick down his brother's back. While he could have thought, _Serves you right!_ the spinning and his fever had made him feel very dizzy, and so he blacked out, thanks to the slight abnormality in his inner ear.

He began to have a very intense dream about the past.

_Thank you to everyone for reading, reviewing and following this fic!_


	4. Chapter 4

_I don't own Cabin Pressure _

Chapter Four

Martin was having a very intense dream.

He was twenty-eight years old again and in his father's room at the hospital. The nurses had moved Adam Crieff off the ward that morning to give him and his family some privacy.

Martin was curled up in the chair beside the bed, holding his Dad's hand and trying not to dose off. He would have visited at the same time as his mother and siblings, but he was holding down two different jobs that involved working shifts at unusual hours, and his managers were less than sympathetic.

Adam's eyes fluttered open, roving around the room.

Martin squeezed his hand tightly. "Hello," he said.

Adam's eyes fell on his youngest son. He reached up a hand to tug down the oxygen mask away from his face.

"You look terrible," Adam rasped. "Are you eating properly?"

"I'm fine, Dad."

But, it was night time and Martin could see his reflection clearly in the window - he did look terrible. Pale, underweight and with dark purple circles under his eyes.

Adam turned his attention to the ceiling. The hospital blankets were stiff and itchy, being attached to a drip made him feel sore, and the elastic from the oxygen mask had been cutting painfully into his cheeks. The room was also far hot and stuffy. But, what worried Adam the most was just how difficult and painful it was to breathe at the moment. He was under no illusion that he could die in this uncomfortable bed.

"You worry too much and you work too hard," Adam panted. If he was going to die soon then he prayed that God would allow him the time to bestow some final wisdom upon his children.

Martin shifted uncomfortably in his seat; he could see that Adam was struggling to breathe. He tried to replace the oxygen mask over his father's face, but Adam knocked his hand away.

"I'm fine, Dad," he repeated again, as if they were magic words which if chanted enough times would come true.

"You're- not- fine!" Adam choked, each word coming out on an individual breath. He fell back onto the pillows for a rest. This time he accepted the oxygen mask.

"Dad, let me call a nurse!" Martin said, the tears were rolling down his face. He stood up to press the alarm button, but Adam held his wrist tightly with a sudden burst of strength.

Adam pulled away his mask again.

"You're not happy. You're back on those tablets again…"

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry. I've tried coming off them but -"

Adam silenced him with a furious shake of his head.

"No. You're can't help being sick," he wheezed. He forced a smile. "I can't help being sick now." He closed his eyes, sucking in deep breaths that seem to have little effect in easing his breathlessness. Somehow it seemed to become worse. "But - your-sickness-comes-from-my family. My- genes. Sorry, Marty."

"I love you, Dad. I love you," Martin insisted. He could sense that Adam's end was near and he felt the overwhelming need to impress upon his father how much the family would miss him. If they could not be there to say their goodbyes in person, then it was his sole duty to do it for them. He had to make a good job of it. "And Catlin and Simon love you too. And Mom - I should call her. She loves you so much, so much."

Martin choked on his tears. It was not fair for his Dad to be finally going now. It was too soon. He should have the whole family around his bed, not just his failing, unhappy son. It just was not fair.

"Shush," Adam murmured, eyes closed and suddenly calm. "Just tell them thank you - I love them all. Love them all."

"Bye, Dad," Martin said.

"Marty," his Dad groaned, fighting for breath again. "Some- dreams- aren't- worth-chasing."

Martin shook his head. He could not believe it. He knew that his Dad had doubts about him trying to become a pilot. But, he had been so supportive before. Why tell him to give up now?

"You're too sad," Adam muttered, drifting. "Love you, Marty."

His grip on Martin's hand relaxed. His chest stilled.

"I love you, Dad," Martin sobbed, kissing his father's forehead over and over again. "And I won't be sad anymore. I promise. I promise. I won't let you down. I promise."

Oooooo

"I promise," Martin mumbled.

He opened eyes and was vaguely surprised to see that there was a Spitfire above his head, hanging down from the ceiling by two pieces of fishing wire in each wing.

Martin could not help but think that whoever had put the poor machine together and painted it had done a pretty sloppy job. Then he remembered with a groan that _he_ had been the culprit, aged nine and a half.

Martin struggled to sit up in his bed, trying to get his bearings. He was back in his old bedroom at the Crieff residence in Wokingham. By the wintry morning light pushing its way through the curtains, Martin could see that his bedroom had not changed in the least since he had moved out when he was eighteen.

He felt a little unnerved by his sudden change in geography, unless this was another dream. But, he had a hazy memory of Simon strapping him into the back of a car, and then, some time later, helping him up the stairs. The clock on the wall said that it was 8.30. It was strange feeling realising that he had been asleep for so long.

Martin considered getting up and finding his mother in the hope of discovering why she and Simon had felt the need to bring him home, but he still felt awful. Headachy and exhausted for the most part.

He wiped his eyes and was surprised to find tears on his fingers. What had he been dreaming about? He did not want to think about it too much. Instead he looked around his room some more.

Needless to say, aviation had been seven-year old Martin's choice of bedroom theme and he had stuck with it for the rest of his life. There were models of planes, pictures of planes, including a poster of the Red Arrows signed by the pilots themselves and books about planes.

Martin was a little surprised to see that his room had been left as it was. The Crieff home was tiny and had been even smaller when Martin had been a child. Originally, there had been only two bedrooms and a box room. His parents were in the one room with baby Catlin in her cot, while he and Simon had shared the other. Then, when Catlin became older, she went in the box room. Some years later, Adam's fortunes as an electrician increased and could afford to have an extension built on top of the house, providing an extra room, which he and Wendy moved into because it turned out to be the most spacious. So, joy of joys, each Crieff child could now have their own room. Simon stayed where he was, because he was the eldest child and Catlin took her parents old room, because she was only girl.

Martin had moved into the box room. He was just glad to have his own room.

There was something stuck to Martin's forehead. He peeled off a blue, gel strip that felt cool to the touch.

He noticed a box resting on the bedside table. It had a picture of a boy on the front with a gel strip on his forehead. _Kool Patches_, the box proudly proclaiming, _Effective Relief For Young Children With Fevers._

"I'm not a child!" Martin pouted, although the gel patch had felt lovely against his hot skin.

A closer inspection of the bedside table revealed a glass of water, a box of tissues and the plastic washing-up bowl left on the floor. His mother thought of everything.

Martin fumbled for a tissue and blew his nose nosily. He could feel an unsettling itchy feeling at the back of his throat, heralding another painful coughing fit Martin would rather avoid. He tried to relax his throat, whilst taking small sips of water, but it was to no avail.

He wrapped his arms around his stomach as each individual cough brought with it a single stab of pain in his lungs. Hot tears streamed down his face. How could it hurt so much?

_Thank you, everyone for reading, reviewing, favouriting and following this story. Your support keeps me going._


	5. Chapter 5

_I don't own Cabin Pressure_

Chapter Five

At 8 AM that Saturday morning Wendy Crieff padded into her son's room to check on the invalid. She was glad to find him still sleeping soundly, even if he still had a temperature. Once or twice during the night she and Simon had heard him coughing loudly, but when they took it in turns to check on him, he had continued to sleep heavily.

Wendy smiled to herself as she watched Martin mutter something, turning over in his sleep.

Last night had been something of an adventure for her. Mrs. Doyle from across the road was the kind of neighbour who saw everything that went on in her domain, and last night she had seen Simon carrying what looked like a dead body into the house, followed quickly by his mother, who had been looking shifty.

Always one to adhere strictly to the principles of the Neighbourhood Watch, Mrs. Doyle had promptly called the police. They in turn had sent round a tired looking Police Constable to investigate.

After a careful inspection of the body in question, the P.C was grateful to announce Martin alive at the scene of the non-crime, thanked Wendy for the cup of tea and suggested that Simon should "Get rid of that orange caterpillar from under your nose if you want to get further in life," before going on his merry way.

Martin had not been awake to remember any of it, although he had groaned loudly when the P.C had poked him in order to elicit further signs of life aside from the raspy breathing. The Police officer was a very thorough man.

Wendy left Martin to go downstairs to the kitchen. She did not know when Martin had last eaten, but she decided that she really ought to try and get some food into him.

She dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and pushed down the lever.

While she waited for the toast to pop up, her eyes gravitated to the family photo she had hanging up on the wall.

It had been taken in Aberystwyth, on one of their camping holidays. They had been walking along the beach, each member of the family decked out in an anorak, the drizzle evident in their hair. But, despite the gloomy weather everyone was smiling or laughing.

Wendy studied her children's faces, trying to work out how old they were in the photo.

Martin and Simon were not quite teenagers. Catlin looked a young child.

She was standing with one foot on Martin's left shoulder and with her other foot on Simon's right. She had her arms flung out wide, newly cut blonde hair, fluttering in the wind. Her parents were holding onto her legs, terrified that she was about to loose her balance at any moment.

Eight, Wendy suddenly thought, that's how old Catlin was when she first joined the gymnastics club at school and was desperate to show off her powers of balance at every opportunity.

They had been a close family. And now…Wendy shrugged to herself. They were still a family, but it had changed that was all. The children had grown-up and moved out, and Adam had passed away.

Families always change with time, Wendy thought sadly to herself.

There were other photos pinned to the wall. Arthur kept her updated with all things related to MJN, including sending her photos.

It was her favourite one of Martin. The caption under the photo announced that it was Gerti's birthday. Carolyn, Arthur, Douglas and Martin were standing in front of the Lockheed McDonell 312. Arthur had informed Wendy that it had been taken after they had returned home to Fitton after a particularly eventful trip to St Petersburg.

Wendy had not entirely followed the garbled story from Arthur. But, apparently there had been an engine fire caused by a goose flying into the plane, and Martin had brilliantly landed Gerti perfectly. And then it seemed that Arthur's father had arrived and tried to steal Gerti, but Douglas had done something both brilliant and clever, and now everything was okay again.

Wendy had wondered if Arthur had made the story up, but there was a sense of victory fresh in the faces of the MJN crew. For once Martin looked happy and relaxed in the photograph, his smile not forced or awkward. Douglas was resting his arm on Martin's shoulder, and was laughing. Carolyn had her arm linked through his. Arthur was standing behind them, jumping up at the camera.

They looked good together, a real team. Wendy could feel the togetherness coming from them. She also noticed that her son was better looking than she had previously been aware of. He had spent so much of his life looking flustered, with flushed red skin, winding his fingers into his hair and the worry shining strong in his tired eyes.

He looked strong in the photo. His pale skin had not yet caught the sun, and his auburn hair was just the right length to suit him. It was not as limp as it had been in years gone by. But, it was his smile which stood out to Wendy. It was almost a cheeky grin, with no sign of Martin's usual nervousness. There was a self-assured glint in his brown eyes. Not the devious kind of glint she could see in Douglas' eyes, or the fierce, determined glare in Carolyn's and defiantly not the innocent happiness in Arthur's. They were the calm eyes of someone who was happy with the tiny niche which he occupied in the world, and understood it's rules and how to live happily in it.

Happy and calm were not two words Wendy usually associated with Martin. Unhappy and panicky seemed closer to the mark. Perhaps that was no longer true.

Wendy bit her lip, remembering just how much Martin had suffered at the hands of bullies at school. At the time she had no idea just how much stress they were causing him, until he gradually became more limp and lifeless. But, then things had come to a shocking climax when three of those boys had pushed Martin out of a window on the first-floor of the science block.

Simon had seen it happen. He had been playing football with his class in their P.E lesson, when Martin suddenly crashed onto the lawn. Poor Simon had thought that his brother was dead and had never really recovered from seeing it happen. Martin was forever doomed to the affections of an over-protective brother whether he wanted it or not.

All three boys had been expelled, but only one was sent to a Juvenile Prison. Adam was furious, saying that they had got off lightly. Wendy was inclined to agree.

Although, Martin's physical injuries healed quite quickly, he became more withdrawn than ever, spending most of his time in his room and staring up at the ceiling.

They had taken him to the doctors and the diagnosis had been depression at age fourteen. He became better eventually after a lot of time off school and counselling sessions. But, the bouts of depression continued on and off the years. After becoming eighteen they had given him anti-depressants to help. He was on them on and off for a long time.

From what Wendy could see, Martin had stopped taking them for some years now. MJN had been good for him. Wendy was glad.

She could hear the fierce coughing from downstairs.

Hurrying upstairs she found Martin in a terrible state, coughing so hard that the tears were running down his face.

Wendy sat beside him on the bed, rubbing his back for all the good that did him.

Simon burst into the bedroom, his hair sticking up at odd angles.

"You okay, chap?" he asked, softly.

It was a silly question, but he did have the sense to grab the washing-up bowl when Martin's coughing turned to heaving. It was disgusting.

When the episode was over Wendy handed Martin the glass of water.

"Do you want anything to eat?" she asked.

Martin shook his head. "I want to sleep."

"After you've had something to eat. You can't take those antibiotics on an empty stomach," Simon said, firmly. He still had the plastic bowl in his hands and was on his way to the bathroom to empty it out.

"I can do that, Simon," said Martin, eyeing the bowl.

"No, you stay in bed," said Wendy. "I'll do it, Simon."

She reached for the bowl, but Simon took a step back, holding the bowl close to his chest.

"Absolutely not, Mumo!" he said. "You shouldn't have to go anywhere near a man's vomit."

"But, I don't mind and it's not any trouble -"

"And I was the one who was sick so -"

"Enough!" Simon barked. "Both of you!" He pointed a finger at Martin, "You're the one with pneumonia, so you're the one who has to stay in bed! And you," he pointed at Wendy, "Shouldn't have to do the disgusting jobs. So, both of you just stay where you are and let me help!"

He marched out of the room.

"Simon's right about the medicine," said Wendy. "I'll bring you some toast up and then you can go back to sleep."

"Simon's always right," Martin mumbled, snuggling down into his pillow.

"Because he worries about his little brother. You know that he's booked a week off work just to help look after you?"

Martin groaned inwardly.

"He worries too much," he said, sleepily.

Wendy paused by the door. "Because he's desperate for you to accept his advice without a fight. Ever since that incident at school -"

Martin flinched under the bed covers.

"He feels that he let you down. He thinks that you don't look up to him. So, he keeps on pushing in the hope that one day you might be happy for his help. Maybe this week you could try to get along a little better?"

Martin thought about it, staring at the window. He could feel his mother's gaze boring into him.

"I will try," he said, eventually.

"Good boy," Wendy said, warmly. "I'll be back in a moment. Try and stay awake."

Martin rolled over in his bed. "Both of those things will be a challenge."

_Thank you for reading!_


	6. Chapter 6

_I don't own Cabin Pressure_

Chapter Six

Catlin was usually the last person in her family to learn anything of importance and it irritated her to no end.

Her mother had phoned her only yesterday telling her not to worry, but Martin had pneumonia, but he was okay and that she should not leave work early to come and see him. It was not worth the effort. Martin would have bristled slightly if he had heard that.

But, that had hardly reassured Catlin. So, as soon as she had dutifully completed her shift the next day, she drove over to her mother's house and pulled up on the drive. She was a little surprised to see that there were Christmas lights already hanging across the door. It was a little premature for her mother, who had always preferred to leave the decorations until a week before Christmas Day, but maybe Simon had put them up.

Catlin used her door key to let herself in.

"Hello, Mom?" she called. No answer. "Martin?"

She walked through the hall and went into the kitchen.

She was both surprised and incensed to find her brother _not_ lying in bed in his pyjamas, but lying under the kitchen sink fully dressed and wielding a spanner.

Catlin cleared her throat impressively. Martin bumped his head against the pipe as he struggled to sit up whilst looking as innocent as possible. He did not pull it off very well.

"Hi, Cat," he croaked, smiling weakly.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she snapped.

"Mom and Simon have popped out to do some Christmas shopping and I noticed that were some odd jobs that needed doing so I, uh…"

"You thought that you would crawl out of bed, get dressed and start doing D.I.Y? Do you think that was a sensible thing to do, Martin?"

Outwardly Catlin was frowning, but inwardly, when she saw Martin's face turn red, she was grinning. Seven years of being a traffic warden had given her plenty of experience of telling people off and shaming them.

She was pretty certain that both Simon and their Mom would have been unwilling to leave Martin all alone in the house. But, then Simon would have also been unwilling to allow Mom to go Christmas shopping on her own. The woman was a saint and always overspent, buying presents for everyone that she knew and always needed one of her children to help with the bags. The three of them had made a pact six years ago to never let her go alone ever since she had brought expensive aftershave for the milkman; they would rotate each year. This time it was Simon's duty to go. No doubt that Martin had insisted that he would be fine and stay in bed and sleep. Little liar.

"I could be doing worse things than just fixing a leaky sink," Martin tackled. "I was lying down _technically."_

Catlin pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling nosily. Martin instinctively backed up against the worktop. His sister was very angry now.

"And what else have you been doing?" she asked slowly with barely constrained fury. "I want the truth now."

Martin rubbed the back of his head, thinking. He looked truly awful to Catlin - pale faced, glassy eyes and with ruffled up hair.

"I may have changed one or two of the old light bulbs to more energy efficient ones so that Mom can save a little on her electricity bills and the planet, by the way."

Catlin's grimace thinned even more. Even when ill Martin was being self-righteous and pushy.

"And then I may have replaced one of the washers in the tap upstairs, cleaned out the washing-machine parts, replaced the lock on the downstairs toilet, put up the Christmas lights outside -"

"You went outside?!"

"- painted the spare bedroom. And then I was doing this. None of it took very long…I don't think, anyway."

Catlin growled loudly, and began to repeatedly slap her own forehead.

"You're an idiot!" She moaned. She glared through the gap in her fingers. "What do you mean by saying "I may have done" and you don't think any of it took very long?"

Martin shrugged. "All of it is a bit hazy. Maybe I only dreamed that I did those things…I'm not sure…"

"Oh, I'm sure you did them. That's just the kind of moron that you are," Catlin muttered, hauling Martin to his feet. He staggered forward, but she managed to pull his arm around over her shoulders before he fell flat on his face. He would have deserved that, Catlin thought. She could feel his body heat burning through his clothes. "Let's just get you onto the sofa for now, okay? I'm too tired from work to haul you upstairs."

"I can manage," Martin mumbled, sleepily.

"I'm sure you can," Catlin harrumphed, kicking the door to the living room open with her foot. "I swear I don't where you get your energy from! No, wait, I do - Dad! The two of you are as bad each other, pushing yourselves to the limit until you -until you break…"

She un-looped Martin's arm from around her neck and lowered him onto the sofa.

"Catlin?" Martin murmured. Even half-asleep he had heard the catch in her voice.

"Shhh!"

She hooked her arm under his legs, swinging them up onto the sofa. She then wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She was just as short as Martin and manual handling was not a required skill in a traffic warden. She flopped down in the armchair, rubbing her eyes.

"Catlin? What did you mean? I'm nothing like Dad." Martin was blinking blearily at her.

"Can't you just go to sleep?" Catlin sighed, wearily.

"I don't have to. I'm fine."

"Really?"

"I've caught up with all the odd-jobs that needed doing around here. A sick person couldn't have done those things. So, Mom doesn't have to worry about me."

"Ah, I see!" Catlin's eyes suddenly gleamed. "So, even though you are very ill, you've chosen to become Bob the Builder just so Mom doesn't have to be so concerned that you have pneumonia. Even though this is _exactly_ what Dad did before he finally accepted that he needed to go to hospital?"

"I'm not going to die!" Martin insisted, burying his head into the cushions. "If I just lie in bed shivering and coughing then she'll worry. But if she can see that I'm well enough to jobs around the house, she won't worry as much."

"Even though this is _exactly_ what Dad did!" Catlin shouted, exasperated. "It's not a very logical thing to do, is it?"

"No."

"At all."

"No," Martin agreed.

"So, you do see the flaw in your logic then?"

"If what I'm doing isn't logical at all, then there can't be any flaw. Therefore it's a completely sensible illogical course of action to take."

Catlin thumped her armrest.

"You're making my brain ache. When did you learn to argue like that? I'm not even sure if it is an argument."

Martin smiled faintly.

Catlin dropped her chin into her hand. "Look, can't you try to mange a little bit less? Making yourself even more ill just to prove that you're not ill is not…it's not good, Marty. Dad tried that and it didn't work out for him."

Martin was looking up at the ceiling, blinking more often as sleep began to overtake him.

"Fine," he breathed, his eyes staying closed. "I'll allow myself to be more ill, to be less dead, to worry Mom more, so that she won't worry…I think…"

Catlin smiled. "Love you, Marty."

"Love you, Cat."

When she was sure that Martin had slipped into a deeper sleep and was not going to wake up any time soon, she padded back to the kitchen to tidy up the tool box Martin had left on the floor. He had done a good job on the sink for someone so ill.

She went around the rest of the house, following the trail of repair and restoration left by Martin. Catlin found herself feeling relieved by the neatness of his work, but it was the same case as in the kitchen - he had done an excellent work, but had only half tidied up. That was not like him at all.

In the spare bedroom, he put away the stepladder he would have had to have used in order to reach the ceiling, but had left the paint brushes thick with white paint on the ground sheet.

She found spanners in the bathroom, and on the landing there were cardboard boxes that promised energy efficient light bulbs, but now had the old, inefficient ones tucked inside them.

She could not open the door to the downstairs toilet. It was firmly locked with its new lock. She assumed that Martin had the key.

The washing-machine had had all of its individual parts cleaned of grime, but had yet to be replaced inside the washing-machine.

Catlin was feeling pretty fed-up by the time she had finished tidying up. It was now late in the afternoon and there was sleet pattering against the windows. Catlin shut the curtains and turned on the lamps.

She could easily imagine Martin doing all that work in a semi-conscious state. It worried her that he seemed unaware of how ill he was. He should not have been left on his own.

Catlin watched her brother sleeping peacefully. She could hear him muttering about some sort of operation manual in his sleep.

To Martin being able to work meant that you were completely healthy in body and mind. Not being able to work meant that you where at death's door. There was no grey area, just those two extremes.

Catlin wondered for how Martin long had been feeling ill before he finally went to the doctors.

When Martin had gained his first job as pilot with Raven Charters he had hit a new low. That had surprised the family. He had finally made it as a professional pilot, but just seemed miserable all of the time. He denied that anything was wrong and insisted that he was not depressed again, but he clearly was. He never liked to tell them anything and in the end he just ended up exhausted and beaten and worn out all over again. If only he allowed people to help once in a while then maybe he would not have been so sick again. Catlin whished that he would. She did not ever want to see him as depressed as that again.

But, then he suddenly left Raven Charters for good and had apparently gained a promotion on joining MJN. He was so proud of himself and happy for once.

Catlin still did not know why he had been so miserable at Raven Charters. But, she knew that it must have been something to do with the people there. She was just glad that he had escaped from Raven Charters and however they had been treating him.

There was a click as the front door swung open and the rustle of many plastic bags being hauled inside as Wendy and Simon returned from their expedition.

Catlin looked wildly around the living room and snatched up a blanket, throwing it over Martin so that his clothes were hidden. If Wendy or Simon found out about everything that Martin had been up to then he was going to be in serious trouble.

Wendy came into the living room, tugging off her gloves.

"Oh, hello, Catlin, sweetie. I thought it must have been you when I saw that Christmas lights up. But, you shouldn't have gone -"

She broke off when she saw Catlin pressing a finger to her lips. She shook her head despairingly when she saw Martin on the sofa.

Simon exploded into the room.

"I went to put some of the presents in the spare room and, well, burglars seem to have broken in and painted it! And what's Martin doing down here? He promised to stay in bed!"

"Perhaps he didn't want to get in the burglar's way," said Catlin, rolling her eyes.

"It was you?" Simon asked, disbelievingly.

"Yes?"

"And you also did the lights? All by yourself?"

"Yes!" Catlin cried. "It's not difficult! In fact, I've also been doing a lot of other jobs around here: changing light bulbs, and replacing washers. That sort of thing. So, if you notice anything different, it was me. Not Martin. He's been asleep all afternoon."

"But you can't even use a can-opener!"

Martin moaned in sleep, rolling over. As he did so the blanket slipped away falling onto the floor and revealing his paint splattered clothes.

"I knew it was him!" said Simon.

Martin stirred again. "Shhh, Simon," he whispered, in a thick voice. "'M tryin' to sleep…"

"Not down here you don't!" Simon laughed. He pulled Martin up roughly by the shoulders and marched him out of the room.

Catlin and Wendy could hear them arguing all the way up the stairs - Martin's groggy voice versus Simon's boom.

"Slow down…I'm tired…"

"Then you should have stayed in bed, shouldn't you? I'm very cross with you, you know that, chap?"

"Why's there so much stuff in the hall? You were supposed to stop Mom from buying too much. Looks like Santa's Grotto."

"Scrooge."

"Only you and Arthur could love such tacky decorations…"

Meanwhile, Catlin was busy explaining to Wendy how much Martin was worried about worrying her. As she listened Wendy bit her lip. She would have do something in order to break this cycle of worry which was only making Martin more ill.

But, she hit upon the perfect idea. It would be best if she could get out of the house and leave Simon and Catlin to take care of Martin. That way he would not have to worry about how ill he looked to her and could get some proper rest.

Not only that but he must be worried about loosing customers with Icarus, Wendy realised. If she went out in his van then he would not have to worry about her or his business.

Yes, it was the perfect idea. But, she would need a helper. And there was only one man for the job.

"That's a brilliant idea, Wendy!" Arthur crowed down the phone later that evening. "I'll see you tomorrow! Tell Skip I hope he feels better soon! What can possibly go wrong?"

_Thanks for reading!_


	7. Chapter 7

_I don__'__t own Cabin Pressure_

Chapter Seven 

It was late in the afternoon and Carolyn was writing on the wall chart as she spoke.

"Wednesday you're flying furniture to Paris…"

"Let's hope that the tables don't mind that there isn't much leg-room," said Douglas.

"Thursday you're flying a group of poets to Limerick…"

"And they want to get there really quick," said Herc.

Carolyn paused in her directives, staring at the piece of paper with the list of flights on it.

Arthur burst into the porta-cabin.

"Afternoon, everyone!" he called.

"Arthur, why are you late?" his mom asked.

"I was just looking up the quickest way to get to Wokingham from here."

"Why? Are you thinking of paying a call in on Martin?"

"No, it's much complicated than that!" the steward said, gleefully.

Carolyn and Herc exchanged glances.

Douglas just looked exasperated. "Arthur, you know the way to Wokingham. You've been there on your own before. And if you're not going with the purpose of visiting our ailing captain, then why are you going?"

Arthur looked blank for a moment. "The thing is, Douglas, I can't really explain that without first telling why it's more complicated than just going to Wokingham."

"Then go ahead and explain. I'm _rapt _with attention."

"Would it be quicker for me to drive to Mrs. Skip house, pick her up and bring her back to Skip's house, get into Skip's van, drive back to Wokingham, pick up one hundred and fifty Acme Hot Cakes from Mr. Morgan's Joke Shop in Wokingham and deliver them to another Mr. Morgan's Joke Shop in Central London - or not?"

Douglas blinked a few times. "And what do Acme Hot Cakes do?" he asked, recovering quite nicely.

But, Carolyn cut across him. Which was a shame because knowing what Acme Hot Cakes do would become an important piece of information in Douglas' near future.

"Dear-Heart," she said, with barely concealed impatience. "Are you really planning on doing a delivery with Wendy for Icarus Removals?"

"Yes."

"And does Martin know?"

"No. It's going to be a surprise!"

"I'm sure it will be," Herc muttered.

"But, why on earth are you planning on driving to Wokingham first to get Wendy and then coming all the way back here to get the van?"

"That's why I'm asking about it!" Arthur cried, rolling his eyes. "Skip has the van keys with him in Wokingham. Wendy said that she could get hold of them, but she doesn't have her car to drive herself and the keys here to Fitton where I am and where the van is."

"I see," said Douglas. "You could always just take the spare van keys from Martin's pigeonhole here at the airfield, or the other-other spare van keys I know he has somewhere in his flat, and drive the van to Wokingham."

"Thank you, Douglas! I knew you would be able to think of an easier way!"

"Always a pleasure to do your thinking for you."

Carolyn smiled sweetly. "Well, I suppose in that case, Douglas, you would like to go with Wendy and Arthur and give them a helping hand."

"What? No! No!"

"When are you making your delivery, Arthur?" asked Herc.

"Tomorrow."

"Excellent!" Herc grinned. "No flights booked for tomorrow. I'm sure Douglas would be delighted."

"No, he wouldn't!" Douglas hissed.

"Yes, he would!" Carolyn retorted. "Think about it: Wendy and Arthur - _Arthur_ - in a van -"

"Yes, I do know what you mean, Carolyn," Douglas snapped. "But, Monday is my day off, one that I planned on spending by buying a Christmas present for my daughter and not by sitting all in day in Martin's Dad's old van, with Martin's mom and Arthur and a van full of fake cakes from Wile E. Coyote Manufactures!"

"I could pay you a little to ease your way."

Douglas sighed heavily. Things would go easier if he was there to oversee things and he could always buy Verity a descent gift in London.

"Fine," he relented. "But, only so you owe me a massive favour."

"Brilliant!" Arthur grinned. "It'll be fun. Almost like that time we flew a piano to Devon for Skip!"

"What was that?" Carolyn asked, sharply.

Douglas slapped his hands across his face, sinking deeper into his chair. Of course, that clot, Arthur, would forget that Carolyn was not supposed to find out about their little jaunt to Devon in Gertie. Time for evasive action.

He hopped out of his chair and hurried over to the door.

"Are we done here? Good!"

"Douglas! What's Arthur talking -"

"I'll see you tomorrow, Arthur!"

Oooooo

The day was not going as badly as Douglas had originally thought. True, he had woken up before the crack of dawn to walk to Martin's home on Parkside Terrace to meet Arthur there, before driving Martin's van to Wokingham; but, at least Martin kept his van immaculately clean and it was working well, despite needing a good half an hour of de-icing and warming up before starting properly.

Wendy met them outside her house. Douglas took an opportunity to look at up the semi-detached home, still mostly in darkness. He felt slightly jealous of Martin, knowing that he was still probably asleep.

"Oh, hello, Douglas," said Wendy, climbing into the passenger seat. "There was no need for you come along too. I'm sure Arthur and I could have managed on our own."

"I'm sure you could have done," Douglas agreed, amiably. "But, the truth is that I love driving this old van around ever since Martin let me have a go on our way to Ottery St Mary. I can't get enough of it. So, really you're doing me a favour by allowing me to tag along. I hope that I don't get in your way."

The tried and tested trick with Wendy Crieff was make sure that she felt she was doing somebody else a favour. Douglas felt a slightly inkling of guilt in this low level manipulation, but it was to help her, which in the end was meant to help Martin get better quicker. Douglas shook his head. Arthur had tried explaining all of the ins and outs of the scheme, but he had not quite followed his line of reasoning, which came second-hand from Wendy, so who knew what the real motive was behind this delivery job.

"I'm sure you won't," Wendy reassured. "Just a second, I have something in my bag…"

She began to rustle around in a large reusable carrier bag, which Douglas had to wonder why on earth she needed it; but, then she pulled out a brightly wrapped Christmas present.

"This is you for you, Douglas. Merry Christmas."

"Uh, thank you," Douglas was a little taken aback.

"And there's one here for you too, Arthur," Wendy said, passing the gift over the seat.

"Thank you!" Arthur rattled the box enthusiastically.

"There's also one here for your, mother, and, oh, one for Verity."

"Oh, you really didn't have to!" Douglas really was flabbergasted this time, as Wendy pushed a cute little pink parcel into Douglas' hands. "Do I take it that you buy gifts for everyone you know?"

"Yes, of course," Wendy sniffed. "It drives the children mad, but my Adam was just the same."

"I don't even know you!"

"No, but Martin does."

"_He's_ never even met Verity!"

"No, but he did help you to drop…what was it? Oh, yes. A sugar brick on her birthday party. And as Adam used to say all the time: you never really know a person until you've dropped something on them."

"Wow," Arthur gasped.

"And Martin told you that?" Douglas was a little surprised.

"Yes, but he was running a high temperature. He always talks in his sleep when he's ill."

Douglas drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Arthur and I can take care of this if you'd rather stay with Martin."

"Oh, no. This is much better for him. What time is it?"

"Hang on, I'll just check my watch," said Arthur. "Oh, no!"

"What?"

"My watch has fallen on the floor. The clasp is a bit…I'll just reach down and - ow!" He smacked his head on Wendy's seat in front.

"Arthur?" Wendy twisted around in her seat to a get a better look.

Douglas turned the key in the ignition. Hopefully a headache would keep Arthur quiet all the way to London.

Oooooo

The three of them made quick work loading the thirty white boxes (each containing five mysterious Acme Hot Cakes) into the back of the van.

But, what Douglas and Wendy did not know was that Arthur had opened up one of the boxes to take a look at the cakes. They looked quite delicious - chocolate with white icing, but it would not be professional to eat one and Arthur was a professional. And Douglas was calling him and would not be impressed to find Arthur eating one.

But, what Arthur did not know was that the faulty clasp on his watch had failed him a second time, and that his watch had fallen into the cake box, which was then hastily sealed shut.

Ooooo

It was only later that day when they had reached Mr. Morgan's Joke Shop in Central London that Arthur first realised his watch was missing.

"Don't worry, Arthur," Douglas said, impatiently. "There are plenty of other Mickey Mouse watches in the world."

"But, it was special! Given to me by Mickey Mouse himself!"

Douglas glowered. They had made it to shop, but were fifteen minutes away from being late with their delivery. They still had to get the thirty boxes into the shop. The manager of the shop was standing on the pavement, tapping his watch. Now, that was the kind of man who would refuse to pay Icarus if they were so much as a second late. Then Martin would suddenly find himself out of profit and not very happy, Douglas suspected.

Wendy started to stack up the boxes in her arms.

"Maybe it fell off in the van again. Douglas, why don't help Arthur look, while I - I can manage!"

Arthur's face lit up.

"I think it fell off into one of the boxes!"

"What?" Douglas' face darkened even more. "Which one?"

Arthur's face fell when he saw the thirty identical white boxes.

"Uh…."

"Ten minutes!" the manager called.

"Never mind," Douglas moaned, pulling out his stethoscope from his coat pocket. He was rather glad now that he had taken to carrying it around everywhere. "Dr. Richardson is on the case!"

Douglas used his stethoscope to listen to each box for sound of ticking before handing the boxes over to Wendy and Arthur to convey to the shop.

But, luck seemed to be on their side because on the fourth box Douglas heard a reliable ticking sound. He opened up the box and…saw no watch.

"But, where did the ticking -" Douglas starting to ask himself before one of the Acme Hot Cakes blew up in his face, covering him in chocolate sponge and cream.

"So, that's what Acme Hot Cakes do!" Arthur cried, in awe. "Brilliant!"

"Arthur, I will kill -"

"Douglas!" Wendy called. She had her ear to the box she was holding. "I can hear ticking in this one too!"

"And I can hear them in this one too!" Arthur said, picking up another.

Douglas wiped the icing from his face. This was not good.

Suddenly the van was buzzing with the sound of 149 Acme Hot Cakes getting ready to blow cake sky high.

"Quick!" Douglas ordered. "Out of the van and into the shop! Before they all go up! Go! Go!"

"Yes, that's much better," the shop manager sniffed, as Douglas, Arthur and Wendy ran back and forth with the ticking boxes. "But, what's that sound?"

"Well, why don't you see?" Douglas asked, shoving the last box into the manager's hands.

Grabbing Wendy's hand he pulled her and Arthur behind the van and just in time too. There was a split second of silence as the ticking stopped and then a _BOOM! _and then the heavy pattering sound of cake debris splattering the side of the van.

When they were sure that the rain of cake had settled down, Douglas chanced looking over the bonnet of the van.

"Is that man okay?" Wendy gasped. "I can't bear to look!"

"Oh, he's fine," Douglas assured her. "A little less snooty and a lot more…cakey."

He spotted something stuck to windscreen, still ticking happily away. He plucked it out of the gooey mess.

"And, oh, look, Arthur. I've found your watch.""Brilliant!"

Ooooo

When they finally got back to Wokingham that evening, Wendy felt tired but happy. A little light persuasion on her part had caused the manager to pay up after all. She was rather good at this job.

The van was a mess and so was Douglas, but somehow it had been fun.

"It's this what it's like all the time at MJN?" she asked, looking through the passenger window.

"No," said Arthur. "Normally, there's more otters."

Wendy nodded. "It's no wonder that he doesn't want to leave then. Goodnight."

She waved Douglas and Arthur off in the cake splattered van before going inside to check on Martin and hoping that he had not done anything silly while she had been out working.

_I used to love watching Sooty and Co. as a kid and one of my favourite episodes was Bun Fight, where Matthew buys hot cakes and guess what? They're actually Acme Hot Cakes and explode. So, this is my tribute to that. Also, it's almost Easter which makes me think of 3 things: Resurrection of Jesus, chocolate and exploding cakes. So, Happy Easter in advance!_

_With both Martin and Arthur being children of the 80s they would have probably watched The Sooty Show, which was the series before Sooty and Co. _

_Also, my first idea for this story was that Martin would get sick and Wendy and Arthur would have misadventures in the van, but the story changed. _

_Anyway, I know that it's a silly chapter, but I couldn't resist having Douglas ordering Arthur and Wendy to get rid of exploding cakes and then jumping for cover behind the van. _

_As always thank you for reading, reviewing and following! It keeps me going._


	8. Chapter 8

_I don't own Cabin Pressure_

Chapter Eight

Martin was a little shocked to find that he was sitting on Gertie's nose. He was even more surprised to see that his Dad was sitting next to him.

"Dad!" he yelped. "I-"

He instinctively tried to back away from his father, but found himself sliding off the smooth metal. He would have fallen off into oblivion had his dad not grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"For goodness sake, Martin! Sit still!" Adam barked gruffly.

Martin pushed himself back against the windscreen, drawing his knees up. "Good idea," he said, weakly.

It appeared that Gertie was just floating aimlessly through the night sky. There were hundreds of stars scattered around them, hanging in the air like many paper lanterns. It was pretty, but there was cold breeze pulling at their clothes and hair. Martin shivered.

"This is the weirdest dream I have ever had," Martin mumbled. "I would feel better if we were sitting _inside_ the plane."

"How do you think I feel?" Adam retorted. He was sweating slightly, holding onto his stomach.

"What do you mean?"

Adam shut his eyes. "I'm afraid of heights, you silly git!"

Martin mouthed an "Oh" before learning back against the windscreen. It was news to him, but it did explain one or two things. Adam sat next to him, breathing in and out.

"It's okay, Dad. I spend half of my life at a height of 35,000 feet."

"35, 000?" Adam wheezed. "If God wanted people to spend half their lives at 35,000 feet then…" he trailed off, trying to decide how to finish the sentence.

"Then?"

"He would have let us live in really tall trees. I expect."

"I enjoy it," Martin said, flatly.

"I know."

They sat in an awkward silence for a while, enjoying the view. Adam was twirling a strand of hair around his fingers, very much something Martin always did.

"You don't hate me then?" Adam asked. "For telling you to give up on becoming a pilot?"

Martin looked horrified. "What? No! No! Never - why? Did you think that when…in the hospital? I've been scared that maybe that's what you thought…but, no, of course not!"

Adam heaved a sigh of relief. He ran his hands through his hair, tears in his eyes.

"Thank goodness, thank goodness," he muttered, over and over again.

Martin stared down at his hands. "You said that so that I wouldn't be unhappy. Not because you didn't want me to be a pilot."

"Exactly."

Martin shrugged. "There were times when I did wonder. You know, when your Will was read out and all I'd been left was your old van and multi-tool -"

"Don't you knock, Bertie! He served me well! And you too from the sounds of it!"

"Bertie!" Martin exclaimed. "The -the van's called Bertie? Oh, well, it is an old man's name - unreliable, shaky, needs plenty of rests!"

Adam snorted. "Well, your Gertie isn't up to much, is she? Something new falls off her each flight. There's a piece of her in every country in Europe."

"That's true."

Martin shuddered, pulling his jacket closed. He was getting colder. He felt a sudden weight on his shoulders as his father draped his coat over him.

"I left you Bertie because I knew that you would need some means of supporting yourself," Adam said, softly. "I knew that you would hate being stuck in a stuffy office somewhere and I thought that if anyone can start their own business, Marty can. And you did in spectacular fashion!"

"Thanks," Martin sniffed.

"I'm - I'm proud of you. Not just for Icarus, but for making it as a pilot as well. How long has been since you were last on anti-depressants?"

"Three years and eight months," Martin said, with a hint of pride.

Adam smiled. "That's all I really wanted for you. To be able to get off awful things. To be happy. I suppose that you like the challenge of working at MJN."

"Oh, yeah, every trip is a challenge," Martin smirked. But, then the smirk faded away. "I was bored at Raven Charters. I mean, everyone was horrible there, but it was also so boring. And I was terrified that I had made a terrible mistake about being a pilot. People wouldn't believe me if I said that I don't like being bored."

"My son, the man who memorised the entire Operations Manual."

"Exactly. But, I have to be perfectionist because I'm not actually a very good pilot!"

"So, what was so boring about it?"

Martin sighed heavily, tugging at his hair.

"Because my Skipper would just ignore me for the whole of the trips. She would ask me to balance the fuel or radio for the weather, but for the rest of time she wouldn't speak to me."

"Not a word?"

"No! And the shortest trips take about half an hour. The longer ones could last an entire day! And when she did say something to me, she would call me Martha. So, that's why it was boring because we just sat in silence for hours. It also made me feel a bit…panicky. On edge. So, somehow I was feeling bored and panicky at the same time. I'm not sure if that's even possible, but I managed it!"

"Trust me, Martin - _you_ can feel bored and panicky at the same time."

"So, I left and ended up at MJN. It's never boring there. Apart from the Hong Kong to Limerick trip we once did."

Adam patted Martin's knee.

"I'm just glad that you're happy now. You kept your promise to me and proved me wrong about becoming a pilot."

Martin shrugged. "Carolyn wants me to apply for other jobs. She always said that MJN could fold at any moment. But, I don't know what to do. If I leave then it will fold for sure."

Adam hummed quietly, not answering, staring into the distance ahead of him.

Still humming, he shuffled forward on the nose, peering down into the darkness. He whistled.

"Come and take a look at this view! It's breathtaking!"

Martin shook his head; he was not going to receive an answer then. He went onto stomach and slid forward. The view made him gulp. Breathtaking was one word for it. Worrying was another.

"Oh," he said. "Is that Earth?"

It seemed that they were actually a lot higher up than 35,000 feet. The Earth in all of its blue and green glory was below them. Martin had never actually seen the Earth as whole sphere with his own eyes before, even if he was dreaming it.

Adam was standing up now, eyes wide with wonder as he surveyed the Earth.

"I thought that you were afraid of heights!" Martin said.

"Yes," Adam replied, vaguely. "I'm beyond panic now. But, I'll be okay as long as I keep telling myself that this height, where we are now, is not a high height. And as long as I concentrate on the view."

"Right," Martin nodded. "We're currently travelling at a low height of over 300 miles above the Earth' surface."

Adam paled. "Martin, please! I don't know where you get your head for heights. Even after those kids pushed you out of that window…300 miles!"

"I said it was a low height," Martin retorted. He craned his neck upwards. "Judging by the size of the Earth from our perspective…we must be somewhere in the exosphere!"

Martin knew that he was probably wrong about this. On the other hand, it was his dream so it was anything goes.

"The what?"

"The exosphere! The - the last layer of the Earth's atmosphere. A few more miles up and we would be in outer space. This must be inner space."

"Funny."

"But, no! That wouldn't explain all the stars around us!" Martin was talking to himself now, a sign of panic. There was something very disconcerting about orbiting the Earth on the nose of a knackered old aeroplane. "But, then again, this is could be a dream. Is it a dream? It looks a dream, but it feels real. Dad, is this a dream?"

"I don't -"

"No, I can't ask you! If you're part of the dream then obviously you would tell me that it's real. But, if this is real…then you a ghost! Oh, no you're a ghost!"

"Martin -"

"You can't be a ghost! You would've gone to Heaven!"

"Martin, please! Just shut up!" Adam hissed. He grabbed Martin's arm tight. "And tell me what that noise is?"

"N-noise?"

Martin listened. There a low groan of twisting metal and vibrations beneath their feet. The stars around them were moving position. Then Martin realised that it was Gertie who was moving, not the stars.

Her nose began to tilt downwards towards the Earth. Adam and Martin staggered back against the windscreen, trying to find something to hang onto.

Adam found Martin's hand, squeezing it tight. Martin was grateful for it's warmth.

"We've got a long way to fall," Adam murmured.

"Yes," Martin agreed. There was nothing else to say.

"Have you ever done an emergency landing before?"

"Yes, I have. But, I was inside the plane!"

"Are you afraid, Marty?"

"No," said Martin, truthfully. "Are you?"

"No."

Suddenly, Gertie was plummeting towards the Earth, falling like a rock snipped off from a length of string. There was fire and heat, and then sudden coldness surrounded by the bright blue of a clear sky as Gertie feel closer to the Earth's surface.

Martin felt his dad's hand slip away as the G-force pushed them apart. He had tried to hold on; he wanted an answer from Dad about what he should do - stay with MJN or find another job?

He could have said I Love You, or even goodbye. But, dreams do not always play out the way you want them to. Martin knew that Adam Crieff had always put his family first and that was enough for him. But, what his own subconscious could not answer was what Adam would have said about the MJN dilemma.

Martin opened his eyes. They were streaming - there was a terrific amount of wind, or maybe he had been crying. He was now clinging onto Gertie's wing, as she fell in a perfect nose dive. Funny, how he had suddenly changed position.

"Skipper!"

Martin blinked. Arthur was hanging onto the wing next to him and loving every bit of it as he kicked his legs as if he were swimming.

"This is brilliant!"

"It's not brilliant!" Carolyn grumbled from Martin's other side. "We're going to crash!"

"Can't Douglas think of something clever?" Martin yelled, hooking his elbow over the lip of the wing.

"Why don't we jump?" Douglas shouted back from beside Arthur.

"That's not clever!" Martin snapped.

The ground was starting to becoming alarming big. They were over England, their crash site would probably be in Fitton.

"Then how about this, Captain," Douglas hissed. "This delightfully little skydive is a rather obvious visual presentation of the conflict going on in your subconscious. What happens to us is up to you. You can stay with us and we will carry on falling, eventually crashing anyway. Or you can let go now and Gertie will instantly crash, but at least you will make it. It's up to you, Martin."

Martin shut his eyes. The wind was threatening to tear his hands away from the wing.

"I can't decide!" he shouted. "Why should it be up to me?"

"It's not!" Carolyn growled. "I'm your boss, so it's up me and I'm telling you to go!"

"You have to go, Skip," said Arthur. "It's been brilliant and things will still be brilliant, but in a different way."

"You'll be an idiot if you don't go," Douglas said. "Hurry up! We haven't got much time left!"

Martin's arms were shaking from the effort of holding on. Gertie was vibrating violently, ready to explode.

"I have a idea!" Martin yelled. "And I choose to -"

And then Martin woke up.

Oooooo

"I've brought you some soup," Simon said, quietly.

Martin's eyes flickered over his bedroom, as he tried to recover his bearings.

"Oh, hell!" he moaned, when he realised that he was back in his room and had no idea what his solution to his problem had been.

"I'm sorry, but I thought that you liked soup!"

Martin lay back on his pillow, desperately trying to remember his great idea. He was certain that it had been a perfect plan that would save MJN, but now it was gone for good, lost in the depths of his subconscious.

He was disgusted to find that his bed sheets were soaked with sweat.

"But, the soup can wait," Simon said, eyeing the sheets. "It's a good sign, though, if it means that your fever has broken."

"Like the morning."

"Sorry?" Simon placed the tray down on the bedside table.

"Morning has broken - old saying."

"Except that it's not morning." Simon checked his watch. "You slept straight through that. It is now 1.30 p.m precisely. Look, if you're feeling up to it, why not take a shower? I can change your sheets."

"Thanks," Martin grunted, swinging his legs out of bed. "Where's Mom by the way?"

Simon shifted uncomfortably. "Visiting friends I think. Why?"

Martin shrugged. "Just wanted to ask her something about Dad's old van."

"Well, Mom doesn't know anything about Dad's van! In fact, she has absolutely nothing to do with it. At all!"

Martin's eyes narrowed. "Why are you being so defensive?"

"I'm not!" Simon laughed loudly. "Go and have a shower! But, make sure that you keep the water as cold as you can."

"Fine," Martin yawned. He had no energy to argue with Simon right now. "I was just wondering if Dad called the van Bertie, or if I was just dreaming that?"

Simon thought about it for a moment. "No, you're right. He did call it Bertie. That's what he told me when I was little."

"You don't mind me having the van?"

Simon stripped back the bed sheets and dropped them onto the floor. Martin's nose wrinkled when he saw the state of them. He was no wonder that he felt so disgusting.

"No, I'm glad he left it to you. You've made good use of it and you needed it more than me." Simon laughed heartily. "Now and go and take a shower, you silly boy!" He slapped Martin on the back, hard.

"Thanks, Simon."

It felt good to feel the lukewarm water running over his skin. But, while he was standing under the water stream it occurred to Martin that if he found another job, one which paid him, he could hand over the van keys to Simon.

His thoughts were interrupted by another coughing fit. It was distracting, but his chest no longer hurt as much. The antibiotics were clearly doing their thing.

Finally, Martin thought, I can back to work soon.

His mother returned home at sometime in the evening. She would not tell Martin where she had been, but she looked extremely pleased with herself. She was also extremely pleased with Martin, as if he had physically fought his own fever and won.

Catlin came in at the end of her shift and the rest of the night was spent in the living room watching a Christmas film on the television.

Wendy would not say anything out loud, but she was pleased to have her children with her for the evening.

The film was Home Alone. It had first come out while Martin was still just a teenager. Wendy could remember taking them on a family trip to the cinema to watch it.

It felt very cosy with the Christmas tree lights on and sitting on the sofa next to Martin on the sofa, wrapped up in the blanket. Catlin sat by their feet on the floor and Simon was in the armchair. The three of them had found the film very funny then and they were finding it funny now. Wendy felt like they had become children again.

Adam was in his photo on the wall. Wendy sighed happily, they were still a family. She was aware that Martin was dithering over whether he should be looking for a new job. But, Wendy was not worried. She knew that her youngest son would make the right decision and everything would be fine.

She smiled when she saw Martin blinking rapidly as he tried not to doze off in front of everyone. She squeezed his hand. She could not pretend that it had not occurred to her that he could have died as Adam had done, but Martin was stubborn and was now over the worst. He would be fit for flying soon.

He returned her smile, squeezing her hand back.

Wendy felt a swell of pride inside of her. All three of her children had turned out to be good and kind people. And happy in their own ways, happiness they had fought to gain by their own strengths.

Wendy lent back to watch the rest of the film; her eyes fell on Adam's picture and her eyes felt moist. She hoped that Martin was not worrying too much about MJN.

After all, families could survive all sorts of disasters and still come out intact.

_Thanks for reading, reviewing and following! It has been fun!_


End file.
